


Half Day

by AngelinaVansen (catherineflowers)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/F, Loss, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/AngelinaVansen
Summary: Janeway receives a chip showing her the fate of Seven of Nine.





	Half Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the early 2000s and is EXTREMELY DARK. You have been warned.

It's only a chip, but it's killed me.

It's killed you, Seven, or rather it's killed the hope that you might still be alive. On this chip is a recording of your death.

Chakotay brought it to me, his dark skin pale and his lips white. His eyes searching mine for a sign of emotion. Only the Captain looks back at him. I wonder if he would respect me more if I broke down in front of him. I think he probably would.

"I'm sorry," he said. He didn't need to be sorry. I didn't want him to be sorry. I didn't want his pathetic pity.

"Dismissed," I said, and there it's sat.

I've got reports to finish, Seven. I've got evaluations to review. The ship doesn't run itself. There's been a problem with the plasma chambers in the port nacelle. I told B'Elanna I would give it some attention.

I drink my coffee. It's cold but coffee's coffee, skin or not.

Your chip looks almost like a little biscuit, flat and resting near my saucer. So inoffensive. I should pick it up and dunk it, take a bite. Swallow it whole, forget all about it. Keep looking for you, Seven. If I don't look at it, then who's to say it really happened?

Chakotay, I guess. Chakotay would think I was insane. More insane.

I get up from my desk slowly, and go into the bathroom to prepare. I splash my burning face. I brush my hair, looking at myself in the mirror. Hoping I can keep the Captain up.

I have to watch you murdered, Seven. It's part of my job. It's more than that. It's more than having to see for myself, as well. It's being there for you, even though I wasn't. Even though I was God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what.

I go to the holodeck with your chip in my hand. It should feel heavy but it's light. Its edges are sharp.

I insert it into the interface and wait the milliseconds that it takes to prepare the program for me. This is horrible, Seven. The doors open for me, Seven. This is awful. I can already hear your heartbeat grinding to a halt.

I must be Starfleet. I must be Captain Janeway. I must do this with every passionless part of me. I say this to myself over and over. Lying to myself. Lying ... lying. If this was anyone but you ....

I have my hands behind my back, and I am here. Inside this grey stone courtyard where they killed you. Every stone might be the last thing that you saw.

You are not yet here. No one is. Wind blows lightly. It is springtime on this planet whose name I have forgotten. Whose people hate the Borg and executed you for being Borg.

If I'd have been there, I'd have told them. You were never one of them. I saw you on that cube, you weren't a Borg, even when you were assimilated. You were a statue, a piece of art. A bald green oil on canvas, so inhuman. Such perfection. One glum eye the colour of a full day's rain.

You come out, Seven. Out of a dark door, and into the light. Guarded, but taller than both of your guards.

I cry. I cry out. They've cut your hair. Your hair, Seven, hacked with something blunt. Uneven, close to your head. How could they cut your lovely hair? Your face is yellow with an old bruise too. I hope you got that while trying to escape. I hope they didn't torture you. I couldn't think of that.

No one speaks. They make you face the wall and tie you. The skin around your human wrist goes white and pinched. If I had been here for you, Seven, what would I have done? The sun is on your pale white skin. Your forehead rests on the large grey wall. Your eyes are closed.

You just look exhausted, Seven. Thin and tired of living. I wonder if you considered this a release, then.

They kill you quick and clean, with a phaserbolt to the back of the neck. I wonder if you even had time to feel the press of the weapon.

That's it. They examine the body to make sure you're dead, and the program ends. The end. My job is over. I can take the chip from the interface, write a report, send it to Tuvok to write a report and then save it for Starfleet some time in the future.

You will become one of my logs, Seven of Nine. Part of the history of Voyager. Like Kes. Like Durst. Like Kaplan. Like Hogan. Like Seska. But oh ... so not like any of them.

Every time we're in a firefight, I'll worry that we'll be destroyed. That you'll be destroyed, every memory of you. No one would know about you, Seven. You were not one of my crew. You were not like any of my crew to me.

I ask the computer to run the program again.

This time I follow you, Seven. This time I wait by the darkness of the door and wait for them to bring you up into the boldness of the sunshine.

This time I see the circles underneath your eyes. The redness. Were you crying, Seven? Scared? Where was I? Oh God, where was I when they walked you across this awful courtyard with your bare feet pale and sore? Why wasn't I here when you pressed your forehead against the unbearable wall and squeezed your eyes like you were squeezing back your tears?

I press my head next to yours, so close I hear you breathing. You're not the statue I saw in the cube any more. Oh no. I peeled all that stone away from you, didn't I. All that strength. I turned you into a human, Seven. I'm so sorry.

Your breathing's fast. Your eyes are shut. Your lip is trembling. Part of your body is shaking. I try to imagine what this must have been like for you Seven. I cannot. Was this worse than when I ripped you from the Borg?

I barely see the man approaching with the weapon. He's so fast. You barely blink, and then you're dead. It's just like that. I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't suffer. 

I watch the spot of wall where you had your forehead pressed, and see a spot of blood. Fresh and wet. Your blood, it has to be. It rolls, and drips. It drips again. Falling on your forehead, just above your sightless eyes. A baptism.

I don't want the guards to come and touch you, but they do. They did, I mean. They check your breathing and your pulse. They do a scan, and make some notes in their computers.

The program ends again. This time I let it. Stare into the silver grid of the holodeck where we used to play Velocity. 

Okay, that's it. I've done my duty. I should go back to work now. Supervise the removal of your alcove, the recycling of your things. Find something, something I can keep of yours that will remind me, always, of you.

I can't. I take a half-day. Chakotay understands, or says he does.

I go back to my quarters and put the chip on my desk. I will write the report on it later. I will have to. Slowly I strip off my uniform in front of the mirror in my bedroom. All the time looking in my eyes. I leave my clothes on the chair and take a sonic shower.

I don't deserve a bath. A bath is for relaxing. I don't deserve to be relaxed. I need the filth to be stripped from my skin. I press my forehead to the bathroom wall and cry.

Just like you, Seven. Just like you.

I can't bear it, Seven. I really can't. It's going to drive me insane. How could they do that to you? How could they capture you, abuse you? How could they execute you? I imagine you, sitting in your cell, red eyes staring as they cut your hair. Your brilliant, luminous hair, falling on the floor.

How could they do that to you? Didn't they see how utterly perfect you were? How beautiful, how strong, how intelligent? How fierce, how gentle? How innocent? How you still had so much life to live?

I weep against the wall, and the tears fall off my face and hit the tiles. How like that single splash of blood.

I wonder then what they did with your body. Did you get a proper burial, Seven? I expect that they destroyed you, just in case. They were so mistrustful of the Borg, those people.

I expect they treated you like garbage. Burnt you, Seven. Oh, how awful.

I wish I'd been there to wash you. Dress you. Put you in your coffin and make you look as though you were just asleep. I think of your body, collapsed in the courtyard. I think of the guards, coming up to check your pulse and breath. I wish I'd pushed them off and fought them off. I wish I'd claimed your body. I wish I'd said goodbye.

I put on my clothes, pick up the chip, and go back to the holodeck.

Scream at the guards as they're bringing you out, scream at the walls, the sky, the gods. It's very therapeutic. Try to throw myself at them, tear you from their grip. But I wasn't really here, Seven. This whole thing's just a ghost. I fall right through them, and I can't really change a thing.

When it's over and you are dead, I freeze the program to make some alterations. Call up a workstation with some buttons so that I don't have to say the words out loud. All the time I'm crying now. Black tears from make-up on my cheeks. Lips swollen, mouth hot and with the taste of sweat. 

When I go back to you and start the program, birds are singing. Sparrows, I think. Something from Earth. The sunlight isn't quite so cold. Through the cracks in the flagstones, some weeds are poking through. Not much, Seven. Just a little touch of life. A little piece of the home you'll never reach with me.

I touch your skin. On my knees beside you, with every part of me trembling. Every part of me broken and bleeding I touch you. It feels just like your skin, Seven. God, the holodecks are good. 

For a moment, I think of Michael. I thought the exact same thought as I let him slide inside my body. I pretended it was real then, too. I can do that now. Perhaps I'm just that crazy.

But you look so perfect, Seven. Even with your hair still cut and dirty. Even with the bruises still across your face. Gently I touch you, stroking your face. Stroking the hair from your forehead. I call for a bowl of water and it appears beside me, warm and porcelain. In it is a rag, cream and clean.

I clean you, just as I should have done. Wiping the dirt from you, the abuse from you. Bringing the innocence back, just like I did when I took you away from the Borg.

I pick you up and lay you across my lap. Your head flops uselessly. I guess they broke your neck with that phaser bolt. Oh how awful Seven. Your lips are slightly blue.

I wash them, make them moist. If this was Snow White or something, I could lean towards you right now and kiss you. Kiss you. Kiss you awake. My lips against yours, feeling your breath come back, feeling the flutter of your lashes as you open your eyes.

What on Earth does this mean, Seven? My lips against yours, against the hologram of you? Because they're there, Seven. They're kissing you. I'm kissing you.

Of course, you're not exactly coming back to life. You feel dead and growing colder, just the way you should be. This isn't Snow White. I'm not Prince Charming. But I am kissing you. The way I'd honestly never thought of doing while you were alive. 

Oh, I knew that you were beautiful, Seven. Beautiful and brilliant. Maddening, challenging, the first real spark of defiance I'd had since I'd been Captain. You questioned everything, I found myself liking it. I found myself questioning myself. When had I become complacent?

I felt protective of you. It annoyed me when I felt people thought of you as attractive. Was I jealous? I must have been. I always thought they'd never understand you. I guess I always thought that you were my enigma to explain.

This beautiful body. Now I can't pretend I didn't notice this. Late at night, you'd come to me with questions. Issues, things you'd dreamed about. Things you needed me to solve. I'd stand there sometimes, three a.m., drunk with sleepiness, staring at your bosom while you talked. 

It looked rock hard sometimes, especially when you dressed in silver. I used to wonder just how much your breasts were Borg. That says a lot, I think. I can't remember being so obsessed with B'Elanna's body. I can't say I ever noticed her at all.

You're not rock hard though, Seven. You're soft and human. Even though you're a hologram right now, a dead body of a hologram at that, your breasts are soft and yielding. Large as ever, perfect and high above your tiny waist. My tiny hands on them, pressed on you over the loose white tunic that they made you wear.

I press and hold, press and hold. Squeeze. Like a lunatic form of CPR. I want to bruise your pale white skin into coming alive again, hold it and tell it how sorry I am. Sorry about the times I was angry with you, impatient. About the times that I was your Captain and not your friend. That was such a waste. You had all your life with me, and I wasted it all, didn't I. Oh Seven. Oh Seven.

I look at you, and fat tears roll down my face. I place another kiss on your white pink mouth and hug you. Next to you, clutching at the dying warmth of your body. This is all I have. The last touch of you alive, Seven.

Slowly, I imagine what it would be like if you were here with me right now. Just the last hour that I was robbed of. The chance to say goodbye. I might be crazy but I'm owed this, Seven. I really am. Didn't I pull you from the Borg and give you back all this they stole? Aren't I responsible for everything you were?

Well no, not quite, but this is not how it should end.

"Oh, Seven," I breathe into your ear. I think if you were here I wouldn't say much. We talked too much. Too much debate.

I think as well I didn't touch you quite enough. It's strange, because I'm famous for it. I'm a very tactile Captain. It's okay though, I'm here now. I have my head against your shoulder, my arms around your waist. One of my legs is hooked over your knee, feeling for the first time just how soft and smooth and new the skin feels.

I spent too much time fighting the Borg, Seven. I didn't spend enough time getting to know the human I'd created.

So pretty. Your face, just centimetres from mine, with its full lips and skin like milk. Pink lips, a little damp from my own. I wish you were here, Seven. There's so much I thought I still had time to tell you.

It hits me then. I can't breathe. I'm dizzy from forgetting to breathe. I will never see you again, Seven. Never. Never. It's a thought too big to think, isn't it. I cling to you then, fingers like claws in your skin, gripping you. Clutching you.

Kissing you, over and over, wishing you weren't so cold. Frenzied almost. Lost. All I can see is you in a blur Seven. So many tears. So much pain. I shake with it. I want to rip myself apart and die with you here.

I tear at my clothes, at the uniform. It's my fault, it's Starfleet's fault. Pips go across the floor, rolling in four separate directions. Communicator hits the wall. Bounces, breaks apart.

My naked skin, smelling clean, of my shower. Smelling like the moisturiser that I replicate each day. This is me, Seven. This is Kathryn. This is the Kathryn that you never knew. I'm crying, Seven. My hair's a mess. 

I rip your tunic down the front, and then we're breast to breast, my heart slamming right against where yours is not.

Feel my sweat? It's building. Feel my breath? It's wild, it's everywhere I press my lips on you, which is everywhere. I don't want there to be a spot on you I've left untouched. I've seen you naked now, I've held you and I've loved you. Now you know me.

Now you've heard me yelling as I come. The sound echoes out across the blanched lost sky like the sound of an animal. Hopeless. Insane. Alone.

These are me. These are all Kathryn Janeway, the woman trembling right against you. God alone knows what this means, Seven. God alone knows why I did this. 

You're not even here. You're nowhere. You're burned or buried on a planet that I've never even heard of. I've never seen you naked and you never loved me, not at all. I'm just a crazy woman, curled alone on harsh and cold and replicated stones.

I call out to the computer to end the program.

Then I lie, my eyes screwed closed, feeling the familiar constant warmth of Voyager. Listening to her engines in the background. Against her deck. At least she loves me back, Seven. I know she does. I can move on.

I get up and dress without looking at myself. Retrieve each of my pips and fix them to my collar. I barely think of you. Hold the two parts of my broken communicator. You could have fixed this.

I exit the holodeck, and I don't save the changes. I don't want poor Tuvok to know what I've done. I doubt he'd need that sort of closure anyway. I expect he'll light a meditation lamp tonight and just reflect. Each to their own, I guess.

I hold your chip as I go back to my quarters. Not quite so tightly, though.

I drink coffee and I have a bath. Write my report, in clipped sentences that say absolutely nothing. Starfleet cannot know. I go to bed. I not need to masturbate tonight.

But I hug my pillow, Seven. I hug my pillow and I smell of only me.


End file.
